


Right Turn Wrong Universe

by Pervasive_Threnody



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Dreams and Nightmares, Episode Related, Episode: s04e04 Doppleganger, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, POV Second Person, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 22:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14122359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pervasive_Threnody/pseuds/Pervasive_Threnody
Summary: Because it's you and it's John Sheppard, and nobody would believe it.Youdon't even believe it, because it just can't be.  It's too good to be.  The reality is good enough to give you these nightmares because you already know how this will end, because this is how the good dreamsalwaysend for someone like you.





	Right Turn Wrong Universe

It's happening again.  You can't stop it.  Nothing stops it.  You don't even bother trying.  All can do is wish like hell it would go away and wait for it to be over.

It's the nightmare you never, ever talk about, not even with the shrink.  Your social status here is just too fragile.  Heightmeyer got it, mostly, but the new shrink would probably just nod and smile and answer questions with more questions and then smack your file with a rubber-stamped CERTIFIABLE; and if other people knew, they'd either call you a liar or laugh in your face or both, and you aren't sure what would be worse.

Because it's you and it's John Sheppard, and nobody would believe it.  _You_ don't even believe it, because it just can't be.  It's too good to be.  The reality is good enough to give you these nightmares because you already know how this will end, because this is how the good dreams _always_ end for someone like you.

The ending begins like this:  John and you, walking on a beach.  Your hand in his; he leads, you follow.  You don't play second fiddle, not to anyone, but you'd do anything for _him_ \--so long as you're allowed to bitch about it, if needs must.

That's why this ends the way it does, why you're helpless to get away when he stops and nudges in close, like he's going to kiss you, a work of art painted even more beautiful by the subdued watercolor pastel of early sunrise as he takes your face in his hands and traces your fluttering eyelids with those callused, competent fingers. 

Why you're powerless to turn away from that heavy-lidded gaze and slow-kindled smile when he pulls away to study the look in your eyes, the naked emotion that you can't hide, everything that gives away what you can't help but feel for this exasperating, infuriating, astonishing man. 

Why your knees tremble and why your erratic heartbeat trips a fuse that sears a burning path to your throat as he bends to your ear and whispers into it, even though you already know what he wants to tell you.

Why you shiver with muted pleasure at the scratchy rumbling purr of his voice, even as he laughs, cold and cruel, and tells you he can't believe you fell for this, _again_.  Just like that, his breathtaking smile cuts in two, replaced by an ugly smirking sneer when he taunts you for being dumb enough to believe you could have this.  For thinking anyone could ever _really_ want someone like you--clumsy, cowardly, loudmouthed, whiny, selfish.  That if you weren't a useful idiot savant, if your supergenius didn't compensate for the magnitude of your incompetence as an _actual human being_ , no one would want you, and you wouldn't be worth anything to anybody, not a single human being, not one.

And you've watched this scene so many times you don't have to look to know that this is the part where he walks away and leaves you to huddle into yourself and stare into the sky, head tilted to dampen the inertia of your tears.  Empty sky, empty heart, empty, alone.  The way it always is, always will be, when the dream ends.

This is what you know.  You know what happens.  You know your place, know he's going put you in it someday, one way or another.

But--

John, he's, he's not walking away this time.  Hasn't said or done what he's supposed to say or do next.  He's still standing there, hands framing your face, and this is supposed to be the part where your breathing and your pulse spiral higher and higher while you wait for him to tear you down, supposed to be the part where he cuts the last thin and fraying strand of your hope and tosses it over his shoulder with your heart still attached.

But he's _not_.  He's just looking at you with the smile that's soft and shy and real around the corners of his eyes, the one that makes you do really stupid and ill-advised things just for the chance to see it, like trying to re-rig a failed Ancient weapons platform that almost gets the both of you killed.  His careworn hands gently cradle your face, linger on your neck, brush down your sides and slide to your waist and hold on tight, like you're something important to him, like you _matter_ , and this, this isn't what's supposed to happen.  This isn't how the nightmare ends.  It's too good to be real, to be true.

So you stretch out a hand, take a steadying breath-- _not_ a mean feat when it comes to Sheppard, even a nice-Sheppard, looking at you like _that_ , like he wants to kiss all of your everythings like a perfect gentleman and lick all of your other everythings like a debauched hot flyboy slut--and you'd dare _an.ny.one_ to keep their composure in the face of _that_ except there will _be_ no sharing, _ever_ , and-- 

"Ow," Sheppard-Not-An-Asshole says, exactly like that, like he's reading inventory reports or, or ice-cream ingredients, and his expression doesn't even change to match.  It's jarring and weird, and what the hell? 

This isn't in the script.  None of this is in the script.  This is veering so far off-script it's disturbing, more disturbing than being mocked by Sheppard, any Sheppard, because at least that's _characteristic,_ and wouldn't it just figure that Nightmare-Sheppard would choose _this_ moment to start being A) _nice_ and B) just as exasperating as his waking counterpart?  Is there a door number three, here, because--

Then there's pushing going on somewhere and the vague sound of someone cursing, and huh, what?  _Also_ not supposed to happen. 

"Seriously, Rodney, get. _off_."

Getting off sounds great, and if Nice-Sheppard would like to get started on that, who are you to argue?  You tell him this and suddenly there's pain, sharp and stinging, making you glare on principle because, again, what the actual fuck?

And suddenly your eyes, your real eyes are open, and Real-Sheppard is glaring right back.

Reality backs the trolley up slowly as you stumble through the memory of a unexpected free afternoon and being pretty exhausted from averting the latest almost-disaster and both of you agreeing that what sounded really nice right about then was a long, slow, unhurried nap.  Together.  And this thing, this _whatever_ between you is as new and shaky as the kittens you're mimicking as you nestle in a pile of blankets, where there's too much clothing and clumsy kisses that haven't quite found their confidence and no actual sex-- _yet,_ mostly because--okay, _entirely_ because John's weird ass is more skittish than a reluctantly tamed wildcat.  But he's _here_ , with you, which means he wants to be, right?  So you're willing to wait.  You've waited this long.  It's great, it's better than great.  It's so much more than you ever, ever thought that you'd get to have. 

It's too good to be true, is what it is, but it _must_ be true, it _has_ to be, because John Sheppard is here and real and breathing in the land of the living, and you're draped over him like he's an oversized, bony-kneed, stupidly-haired stuffed animal, and he's _letting_ you but also pinching _your_ thigh back, _hard_ , and it _hurts_.  That's what woke you up.  Dreams are only for _feeling_ unhappy.  Dreams, your dreams, don't make with the physical hurting, which is probably why you were trying to wake yourself by--

Oh. 

You blink down at John.  "Hi."

John blinks up at you.  "Hi.  _Please_ stop pinching me, Rodney."

You'd like to do that, really, you would; problem is, Sheppard, John, has really muscular thighs that you really don't want to let go.  Runner's thighs.  Run-for-your-life-Rodney thighs.  Very nice thighs that could very probably be nakedly wrapped around yours in the future in the interest of mutual naked gratification if you don't ruin this and oh, god.  This is totally your justification for squeaking like a roomful of helium balloons--and it's a _damned good one_ \--as you say,

"Um, you, um, first?  Um."

John squinches his eyes.  "Count of three.  One, two--"

Regular Glare turning into Squinchy-Eyed Annoyed Team Leader Glare sufficiently motivates you to release John's nice thigh and back away before the count is up.  The Glare disappears accordingly.  John props himself up on an elbow, eyes you worriedly, or maybe warily, why the hell not both? 

"Something on your mind?"

Of course there's a something on your mind.  What a stupid question.  It's so stupid The Hair must have been in charge of asking that one.  There's _always_ something on your mind.  More and more things all the time, even as your own hairline makes its strategic retreat.  Maybe that's _why_ it's leaving.  You've chased it off with too damn much thinking and worrying and panicking. 

But you can't _stop_ , don't know how, never did.  Your mind races, plunges ahead, trips over itself like a hamster running a wheel too fast, and maybe in your dreams you know how to be quiet, but again, this is reality, where you never shut _up_ , can't even do it to save your own damn life, so you just open your big, fat mouth to lay it all out there, tell him that your subconscious seems to think he's an abusive asshole, and that even if he isn't, you're not worth the time, so he'd better just leave and get it over with, and--

"Whales."

Okay, well.  _Clearly_ your subconscious has _other_ plans for today, like scaring away your new almost-boyfriend, person, with giant red flags and angry self-destruct klaxons in the form of whatever the hell _that_ was.  Your jaw unhinges and you openly gawk at _yourself_ while John stares at you, blinks a bunch more times, tilts his head, and you can see the _what the fuck, Rodney?_ written all over his face, like he thinks you've got an answer for him, like you even _know_. 

But then, like a switch being flipped, John's expression changes, and you see him _get_ it, whatever _it_ is.  He's figured it out, figured you out before _you_ do, how the hell does he _do_ that?  He's put pi and pi squared together, extracted the relevant data from an infinity of discombobulated nothing, and arrived the answer much, much faster than you could. 

 _God_ , that's so _hot_.   

And you, you're _still_ trying to figure yourself out when you realize he's pulling you back toward him, so you struggle a little, push away because you want to _know_ , and almost miss it when he says,

"Do I have to go back in there and kick my own ass again?"

And that--that's it, right there.  The shared nightmares, when John saw the worst and the best of you all at once, like every day before that, and every day since, because when looks at you he doesn't see what he wants to see, he sees _you_.  He knows what makes you tick, or stop ticking, more completely than anyone else you've ever known.  Knows everything wrong with you and doesn't care, in fact actually seems to _like_ your brand of crazy, because, well, you were in _his_ nightmare too, and based on all available evidence it's entirely possible he's just as fucked up as you are.  Maybe even _more_ fucked-up than you are.

You two are _something_ , all right.

It's the best _anything_ you've ever fucking had. 

The thought makes you giddy and panicky all at once.  "Don't be an idiot," you mutter, tamping down an unmanly giggle under the guise of thumping your pillow.  "Besides, _I_ figured out how to kick _your_ skinny ass out of that nightmare.  And I _still_ haven't forgiven you for not rewarding me with hot girls.  Don't think I'll forget.  You _owe_ me."

See, any of the very few people you've managed to share a bed with long-term, done this _relationship_ thing with, would probably get all pissed over the hot girls, especially while you're _in_ bed with them, and call you a pig, which they really should because it's, well, true.  But John, he just makes the donkey laugh, the one that's so horrible and dorky and awesome and so _him_ that you full-body shiver every time you hear it, because it reminds you that you're so much in love with this crazy fucked-up man and his stupid hair and stupid dorky laugh and all of his stupid dorky _everything_ that you can barely withstand it.  Because you know it's going be the end of you someday, chasing after Lieutenant Colonel Deathwish--you, the undisputed champion of self-interest and self-preservation--and the more and more you think about it, the less and less you mind, if only because _somebody_ has to follow him into whichever highly improbable afterlife he winds up in and then break every physical law of the known universe in order to drag his sorry ass back, bitching about it all the while, and like hell that somebody gets to be anybody but _you_.

John Sheppard, who's nothing you even knew you wanted, but when you figured it out, it was like falling in love with mathematics for the first time. Like it was always _there_ , already a part of you just waiting to be discovered, and you knew the answer to every question without having to _ask_ , because you and mathematics and John Sheppard, you just, just _are._

"Yeah," John says, looking pleased as he runs his hands up and down your arms, "you _did_ kick my ass," like for some reason he's _proud_.

Freak. 

"Yup.  I _did_."  You can't really help it; a little preening is justified, especially since John agrees. 

A beat later John's eyes go shifty.  Rut-roh.  Looks like he's going to try to be, like, _emotional_ and shit.

Sure enough:  "Don't think I, uh, ever told you."

Christ, here we go.  "What."

"That was.  When you."  John clears his throat.  "Um.  It was really."

"Really?"

"Kinda--" 

"Kinda?"

"Hot." 

" _Hot_?"

"Oh, yeah," John rumbles, looks at you now with wide, earnest little-boy eyes, and how _anyone_ thinks he's Colonel Coolio McSlickster you will never, _ever_ know, what the _fuck_ , people.  Well, you saw through it first, right from the start, so back the hell off.  That's right, all hands _off_ deck.  That means _you_ , Ascended Jennifer Lopez and all you other space bimbos and man-himbos and present _and_ past virtual reality whatevers and hot figments of _anyone's_ imagination, including your own.

Oh, but, hey, "Wanna do it--"

" _No_."

"No?"

You pout, disappointed, because thinking about it, there was something about kicking his body double's ass was just so--so _kinetic,_ in a way you fail at so badly in reality but would do again and again if you could.  It satisfied some disgusting lizard-brained primal need you didn't even know you had.  Horrifyingly, you now better understand the appeal of contact sports like football:  Body-checked into that wall, unstoppable force, immovable object, full-court press against Sheppard's stupidly unreasonable hotness, it got _you_ hot too, and, well, just _think_ of all the creative stuff you could _do_ with that technology, like virtual reality but way, way better.  Who _wouldn't_ want to?  

Well, clearly _John_ doesn't, but why?  Didn't he just say he thought it was hot? 

Just like that, doubt starts to creep back.  Doesn't waste any time, does it?  Creep--maybe he thinks that's creepy?  Now he thinks you're a creep, and--

"No," John says again.  He squeezes your shoulders and looks you over in a way that makes your _hair_ blush, what's left of it, anyway.  You hope it regrets deserting you prematurely, the asshole.  See what you're missing.  "Dreams suck.  Reality's way cooler."

Oh.  Relief makes you feel weak and probably sounds like the unmanly blubbering that really wants to happen.  You force it into a guffaw instead, because _really_ \--

"'Suck'?  'Way cooler'?  How _old_ are you actually, Sheppard, because I'm starting to have doubts that you are even _legal,_ and I don't--woof!"

So you're pretty much stuck with these stupid self-doubts and insecurities, and you know it.  The instinct to turn tail and run, to leave before they leave you, it's part of who you are.  But that's okay, because John, who's learning _way cool_ new ways to shut you up, and who's _way_ right about the dream/reality comparison thing--not that you're ever going to _tell_ him that--just shrugs and pulls you right back in; a gravitational two-body problem with no known escape velocity, and your orbits collide when you make happy noises and burrow into the circumference of his arms, three point one four one five nine two six five, oh, _yeah_. 

When you dream again, it's fullest midday, and John is still in your arms, kissing you like he's always known you're everything he's ever wanted.

The beach is nowhere to be found.

 

***

_~Pay close attention_

_Don't listen to me from now_

_George'll be flying this one_

_And it's anyone's guess how he does this_

_Is the right turn wrong_

_Universe taking me in full bloom_

_Fireball careful with that there_

_See what you made me do_  

_I must be dreaming_

_Or we're onto something_

_I must be dreaming_

_For I don't fall in love lawlessly_

_I must be dreaming_

_Or pinch me to waking_

_So undeniably yours_

_As long as I'm losing it so completely~_

Frou Frou, "Must Be Dreaming"

***

**Author's Note:**

> This is--
> 
> Well, the creative drought was shorter than last time, so that's good, but apparently my muse and subconscious both have a _thing_ for second-person stories featuring insecure!Rodney and reassuring!John, and that's all they're gonna give me for the foreseeable future. I don't know even what this says about me.
> 
> So I found the picture on SGA Post Secret, an old-timey LiveJournal community, a long time ago. Uh, I don't know if that person is even following the fandom anymore? But thanks for sharing it, at any rate. It really got to me. Just look at him. :( I hope John did a good enough job of cheering poor Rodney up. Quit being so insecure and go back to being awesomely smug, Rodney. Colonel Snarky McHotpants _likes_ your weird shit. You win at _everything._
> 
> Oh, how I love these two hopeless dorks. They're both so _fail_ at the people and relationships thing yet so effortlessly good at, you know, _each other._ Their lives on screen were short, much too short, but John and Rodney left an impression on me that casts, a long, long shadow, and I hope I never reach the end of it.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading.


End file.
